


OTP: Bound at the Soul

by leigh57



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In theory, this will wind up a repository for the one word prompts I've gotten on tumblr. Fingers crossed that I actually manage to do them all, because the prompts are amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freckle

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters aren't connected chronologically or thematically, just to make sure nobody's confused! And some of these are definitely AU, particularly after the msf. Just little drabbles, etc.

She’s half asleep already, curled into the warmth that inevitably radiates from Daryl’s body pretty much all the time, but especially after sex. The rhythmic back and forth of his thumb over the inside of her wrist makes her even sleepier. Listening to the storm outside (thunder rattles the windows every now and then, and intermittent lightning flickers through the room), she feels the soft tap of Daryl’s heartbeat against her shoulder and makes a mental list of every single thing she’s grateful for, right in this exact moment.

An actual bed (fine, with shitty sheets — it doesn’t matter).

The sound of raindrops smacking against a real glass window (she’s so tired of tents, of cold ground, of waking up with her shoulder or leg cramped so badly that she has to chew her cheek to keep from making a noise he’ll notice).

A house with room enough for everybody to spread out.

The can of sliced peaches in heavy syrup she and Daryl got to share after dinner — at this point in her life better than any ice cream she can ever remember eating.

A bedroom door that locks.

Sex that didn’t have to be an Olympic speed event for once. (She can barely remember the last time they had more than fifteen minutes to do it, start to finish, and sure that takes the edge off, but it’s not the same as this.) The chance to get rid of  _all_ their clothes, one piece at a time. Kissing for ten minutes before they even started doing anything else, so soft and slow and sweet. Daryl’s voice in her ear, whispering how much he loves to taste her skin.

Actual foreplay, so good that she was trembling before he got even close to being inside her.

The way it felt inside her chest when he rolled her over and whispered, “I can’t wait no more,” and she kissed him harder and breathed against his open lips, “So don’t.”

The fact that for once, she gets to fall asleep naked, to feel the heat of his skin touching hers, everywhere.

The rush of the wind through the pines just outside.

So she’s drifting, almost gone, when she feels Daryl’s fingers moving lightly up her arm, stopping at her shoulder. He kisses her there, three times, and mumbles (voice muffled by her skin), “This one’s my favorite.”

"Your favorite what?" Her words are crackly with exhaustion.

"Freckle."

She can’t help laughing, eyes blinking halfway open in the dark. “You’re so full of shit. They all look the same.”

"Maybe to you." There’s laughter beneath his words, and something inside her picks up and floats — the indescribable joy of having him back, of having him here, of having him with her, of having him like _this_.

She’s suddenly afraid she might cry, but she bites her lip and murmurs, “Definitely to me.”

"You jus’ haven’t looked at ‘em enough," he replies, moving his kisses to the curve of her neck and touching his supposedly favorite freckle with the tip of his index finger. He makes a circle and adds, "I used to stare at this one all the time, whenever you’d wear that damn tank top that drove me crazy."

Still trying to keep it light, she grins and says, “Well you must’ve really needed to get off, because that tank top was horrible.”

"Didn’t wanna get off. I wanted _you_.”

Okay, so much for light. 

Her eyes fill with tears and she rolls over instantly, turning in his arms until she’s halfway draped over him, fully awake now and looking into his eyes in the shadowed room. He doesn’t shift his gaze even a fraction, eyes filled with so much unfiltered love that she feels a little as if she’s coming apart, right there. After a second, she swallows and says, “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

He shrugs, one of his hands drifting into the back of her hair. “I jus’ tell you the truth.”

She looks at him for a long moment, lightning highlighting his face for a flash before leaving the room darker in its wake. Then she kisses him one more time, trying to use her lips to communicate because words aren’t working, and finally squishes down under the covers, head on his chest.

"You comfortable?" he asks when she stops wiggling. His hand settles on the small of her back, callouses brushing her skin.

"You have no idea how comfortable I am," she replies, letting her eyes slip shut again.

"Wouldn’t bet on that," he retorts softly, and she figures he can have the last word.

Just this once.


	2. Found

The howling in his head mixed with the droning hum of tires on pavement until he felt like maybe maybe someone was bashing his skull with a pickaxe — from the inside. Sweat prickled over the back of his neck and down his spine, drops sliding into the filthy hem of his shirt. He could have puked right then if he’d given himself permission, but fuck if he had time for that shit, for being sick, for anything except his boot on the pedal and the words he kept repeating in his mind.

_She’s breathing. She’s breathing. She’s breathing._

He thought it like a chant, trying to slow everything down, get himself at least a little under control, because the frantic pulse of his heart felt weird even to him, and he wasn’t gonna be any good to her like this.

Gripping the steering wheel with bloody, sweaty, ripped up hands, he kept glancing into the rearview mirror. He’d tilted it just right, so that every time he looked he could see her face, chalk white except for the bruising around her cheeks and temples. Carol was motionless in Tara’s lap, scarily still.

So fucking still.

He’d watched her sleep before (more often than he was given to admitting, even to himself), but this was different.

Like she was somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t reach.

He tried to focus, tried not to think about the glint in her eyes and the lilt in her voice, the dance in her walk, the smartass tilt of her chin when she was giving him shit, the way one soft glance from her felt as real as touching.

He tried not to think about anything except the road ahead of him and the chant in his head.

_She’s breathing. She’s breathing. She’s breathing._

He flicked his eyes to the mirror again, and Tara blurted, her voice soft but still clearly irritated, “Will you watch the road, please? I swear I’ll say something if her eyelashes move or her finger even twitches.”

He swallowed and looked ahead again, shifting left to stay clear of a lone walker lurching in their general direction. “‘M’sorry. Jus’ don’t know what’s wrong with her and it ain’t like we can get her a fuckin’ doctor.”

"Don’t apologize. You’re scared." Tara paused, shifting in her seat. "I’m scared, too. It’s just not gonna help her or any of us if you drive off the road."

"I know." Daryl stared ahead, squinting against the painfully bright rays of the sun as it dipped lower. He could see the reflection of the SUV Rick had hotwired, chrome flashing and flickering as he weaved between abandoned vehicles.

Forcing himself to focus, he fell silent long enough for the scenery to switch from highway to a two-lane road where Rick hooked a right. Daryl had no idea where Rick was going, and he honestly didn’t fucking care. All he wanted was to get there and take Carol out of the car, put his hands on her, figure out why the hell she wasn’t waking up even though nobody had been able to find any evidence of a head injury.

He hit the edge of a pothole and muttered, “Sonofabitch,” just as Tara gasped.

"Shit, she’s blinking," she said, her voice tight. "Carol, okay, don’t freak out. It’s Tara, you’re safe, we’re just driving until we’re far enough out of the city, Daryl’s in the front." All her words came out in one giant rush, and then she whispered, "Daryl. _Say_ something.”

His eyes hit the rearview. He couldn’t help it. 

And if he’d thought his heart was doing weird things before, that had nothing on what happened when he saw the crystal clear blue of Carol’s eyes — wide, confused, and at least a little bit terrified — but present.

_Awake._

_There._

_With him._

He choked back the sob that was already crushing his chest and, not giving a shit how strained or fucked up his voice sounded, just started talking.

"Don’t move, okay? Jus’ relax and breathe. If you want, Tara can get you some water. We’ll stop in another few minutes, I swear. We gotta look at you, find out what they did, but we hafta get far enough out first and-"

He ran out of air right then, but sucked in another giant breath to keep going when he heard the sound that, in that moment, was better than any of those damn symphonies his mom used to put on the record player on the rare occasions when she was sober.

"Think you’re the one-" Carol paused, a tiny cough interrupting her words. "Who needs to breathe."

The gentle teasing warmth in her tone threatened to crack him entirely, and he frantically blinked back the tears that were already tracking down his cheeks. In another lifetime he might have cared, but all he could think now was that this crying bullshit made it hard to see, and he had to keep following Rick in the quickly deepening darkness.

"He’s losing his shit," Tara whispered conspiratorially, as if he couldn’t hear her perfectly well.

This time when Carol spoke, her voice was soft, comforting. “Daryl, I’m okay. They gave me something. Maybe a sedative, I don’t know. But I’m okay.”

He dragged the back of his hand over his face, creating a messy smear of mud and salt. Clearing his throat, he managed to mumble, “Good. M’still checkin’ you out completely when we stop.”

"Well, that’s something to look forward to." The teasing was back, and he wanted to wrap the sound of her words around him like a goddamn blanket and never let it go.

"Let’s get you some water," Tara said gently, and Daryl calmed himself by listening to the quiet sounds of Carol swallowing as he stared at the road ahead .

_She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay._

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

When they finally stopped, he barely had the car in park before he was shoving the door open, jumping out, and yanking the back door so hard it made a creaky noise of protest.

He knelt halfway down and, offering Tara a grateful half smile, reached for Carol. “C’mere.”

For a second he thought she might object, but after a beat she simply held out her arms and let him swing her up into his (a move his back would hate him for later, but he couldn’t possibly have cared less).

Head against his shoulder, she muttered, “I’m only letting you carry me ‘cause I’m so dizzy I’m scared to walk.”

He looked down into her face, into the wide blue eyes he’d missed so fiercely that he still barely trusted himself to talk, and without even thinking he brushed the quickest of kisses over her forehead. Smirking, he strode toward where he could see Michonne and Tara laying out a sleeping bag so Carol could be as comfortable as possible while they checked her out. “Y’make it sound like I was gonna give you a choice.”

She huffed. “I’d walk if I wanted to!”

His voice dropped low, the weight of _everything_ pressing against his exhausted vocal cords. “But you don’t wanna, do you?”

Carol grinned, that smile he loved with his soul, that smile she saved _only_ for him, and whispered, “No. I don’t wanna.”


	3. Quickie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is sort of smut lite, idek.

She couldn't actually remember the first time she'd thought about having sex with Daryl.

Her initial impressions of him (in the terrifying chaos after running from Atlanta) were a confusing cocktail of fascination and fear, with half a shot of quiet guilt thrown in when she caught herself noticing the way his triceps moved as he lifted the crossbow or worked on the RV. She was married no matter what, after all, and God didn't like it when married women looked at men who weren't their husbands.

But honestly, it didn't turn into a big deal. Daryl was away from camp most of the time, and she had way too much to do to be staring off into space, mooning over his triceps. She noticed that they were lovely, turned a little pink, forgave herself for it, and left it at that.

(Sometimes though, late at night when she couldn't sleep because maybe Ed hadn't had enough to drink and maybe he'd wake up, and Sophia was right there . . . sometimes she'd think about the silent way Daryl watched her out of the corner of his eye, the way his gaze flicked to her and Sophia when he came back into camp, glancing them up and down as if to make sure nothing bad had happened in his absence.)

She didn't get it, not really.

He barely communicated with her, save in grunts and the occasional nod or headshake, or to say a gruff "Thank you" when she gave him something to eat. But she could never shake the sensation that for whatever reason, he'd decided that she and Sophia were under his protection in some way, that he was always watching for signs that Ed had screwed up again, waiting for any excuse.

And she couldn't lie to herself. She didn't. It was nice, a man watching her, noticing her, just because he wanted to. She'd long forgotten the feeling of that flush rising to her cheeks, the little heartbeat spike she'd get when she'd catch him staring and he'd look away in a flash, almost as if it had never happened.

But she knew it had.

Then Ed was dead, Sophia was gone, and she didn't think about anything remotely related to sex at all for a long, long time.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Gradually though -- in the moments when the oppressive horror of missing her baby would lift for a second and she'd laugh with Lori over something stupid or tease Glenn when another joke went entirely over his head -- she found herself noticing little things about Daryl.

The way he held his body tense all the time, muscles tight and ready for impact, even when impact wasn't likely.

The way he couldn't stand still, how he was always fiddling with a hole in his pants, shoving the toe of his boot around in the dirt, rubbing the edge of his fingernail, pacing when he could have been sitting.

The purpose in his stride when he headed out to hunt, his body confident in a way it never was under any other circumstances. She loved watching him walk.

The way his voice softened when he spoke to her. For a while, she thought she had to be making that up, because why the hell would he address her any differently? But eventually she realized that it had started with Sophia and it never really changed -- the drop in pitch and the honey-soft smoothing of the sharp edges.

It made her feel warm.

Still, it took a while for warm to translate into actual well . . . lust. And just like everything else in the backwards insanity of their relationship, it happened to her all of the sudden, an instant jump from _God, look at his arms while he picks up that beam_ to _God, I wonder what it would feel like to have him inside me_.

She'd turned bright red the moment the thought entered her mind, dashing from the prison yard so quickly that later that afternoon, Michonne came looking for her and asked if she was sick.

The thing was that since the world had gone all to hell, orgasms had (for her anyway) been reduced to an occasional irritating biological necessity or a way to alleviate unbearable cramps when she didn't want to deplete the limited supply of Ibuprofen. She wasn't ashamed of masturbating, not at all, but it was never exactly fun with people everywhere and when all she ever got out of it was a reminder of the fact that she'd probably be dead before she got the chance to have sex again.

For her entire life, Carol had associated sex with guilt, pain, revulsion, or a combination of all three, so she probably shouldn't have been surprised that when she and Daryl finally got around to doing it, she liked it so goddamn much.

Okay, the truth was that in the rare, quiet, honest moments when she'd _really_ allowed her mind to go there, she'd been pretty positive that she'd like it.

A lot.

I mean, the man was an insanely observant collection of gorgeous muscles who had a serious oral fixation, so chances that sex with him would be fun were . . . high.

Or so she'd assumed.

What she hadn't banked on was exactly  _how good_  sex with Daryl had turned out to be. Sure, the first couple attempts had included long, uncomfortable moments of awkwardness, with slipping body parts, hands in the wrong places, nervous giggles, and lots of,  _Oh shit_  and _Sorry_.

But Daryl was so observant that he studied her every move, her every noise, her every sharp intake of breath like he was memorizing a beautiful but complex piece of music.

_And then he played her._

The problem was that being on the road as a group left them with almost zero opportunities to be alone. Since they'd left Atlanta again, there had been two nights when she and Daryl had managed a locked door and a bed. The memories from those two damn nights were seared into her neural pathways -- the quiet, the slow kissing, his tongue sliding over hers until she could feel the echoes everywhere, the stroke of his hands and the touch of his mouth over every part of her body, his fingers inside her until she couldn't breathe and didn't want to, his tongue in her navel and over the inside of her thigh, his voice in her ear, whispering all the things he wanted to do to her while he had the chance.

_While they had time._

The other five times they'd done it (god, she felt like an idiot teenager knowing the actual number of times they'd had sex, but why wouldn't she know when it was that low?), they'd taken off nothing but the necessary clothing and been finished with the entire process in a maximum of fifteen minutes, cookies for everyone. She wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or impressed by how quickly he could make her come, but there was no denying that he knew what worked.

So although she'd expected to enjoy it, she hadn't predicted that she'd wind up wanting it like air, like a drug, that she'd wind up thinking about it at the most inconvenient and irritating times, that her body would mutiny no matter what her mind said about the impracticality of sex in any given moment.

Which was why she naturally blamed _him_ for her current predicament.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

She'd woken up pressed against him on the mat they shared, her breasts rubbing his back through the thin fabric of her shirt. Great, nothing like wanting to strip completely naked and have leisurely, playful, uninterrupted morning sex when you're . . . surrounded by a bunch of other exhausted, cranky people.

She'd shoved herself away and put on a bra before she could think about it too much, and gone to make herself useful helping Tara fix breakfast, hopeful that keeping busy would distract her.

And it had worked.

For a while.

Until they were alone.

Again.

Every morning a team went in a first wave to look for cars, and now the two of them were twenty or twenty-five minutes ahead of the rest of the group.

It was a gorgeous day -- cool and crisp with no humidity. The leaves drifted around in sweeping currents of gold, red, orange, and brown, catching in her hair every now and then as they walked. (Daryl would reach over to smooth them out, and although she smiled and said "Thanks," she also sucked in a breath and thought, _Shit, you are seriously not helping_.)

Not that he could have known.

He was in a a surprisingly good mood, given the circumstances. Neither of them had had watch last night, and for once Daryl had fallen almost immediately into a deep and quiet sleep, his body overheated (as always) but relaxed next to hers. His stride had more bounce than usual in it, and he was uncharacteristically chatty, tossing out offhand comments like, "Bet if we get a little further into this forest I can find us a deer" or (nodding towards his crossbow) "You think Carl's old enough for me to teach him how to use this thing yet?" or "You're holding your shoulder funny. Lemme rub it for you when we stop tonight."

 _You're really, really, really not helping_ , she thought, staring up at the sky to see if she could come up with goofy things the clouds might be.

That didn't help either.

All she could think about was sex.

Her cargoes rubbing between her legs made her think about sex. The sound of Daryl's breathing as he walked made her think about sex. The way his arm gripped his crossbow made her think about sex. The goddamn bark on the trees made her think about sex.

 _Shit_.

Maybe she was ovulating or something. She squished her hands into fists and kept walking, concentrating on the crunch of leaves beneath her feet and the faint spark of pain from an almost-healed blister on her right heel.

"Y'okay?"

She'd been so lost in hormone-hijacked thought that his voice startled her. She tripped on a stick and almost fell, catching herself hard with her other foot. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath, and then, inhaling to center herself, she said, "Fine, why?" But her voice sounded weird even to her, and she knew he was more or less impossible to bullshit.

He shot her a sideways look but kept walking. "You been jittery since y'got up. Jump every time somebody talks to you." He shrugged. "Jus' checkin'."

Her insides melted even more at his tone. She didn't often let herself get nostalgic about all the might-have-beens of life if the virus had never taken over, but she couldn't shake a sudden image of her and Daryl stretched out on a bunch of pillows in front of a huge fireplace, her back warm up against his chest, his arms over hers, rubbing the bones of her wrists, allowing her body to just relax into his.

_Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing to run from._

_Just time._

She dug a fingernail into the center of her palm until it hurt. _Focus, dammit._ And when she looked up again, there was a car a few hundred yards ahead, off to the side of the path, partially obscured by the bushes.

"I'll go first this time," Daryl said, picking up his pace. "Your side's still sore."

This wasn't even really true, but she didn't argue, trailing behind him toward the car, hyper-vigilant in case a walker appeared out of nowhere while Daryl's concentration was divided.

Pushing some leaves aside, he yanked open the driver's side door and reached for the key, his face plainly registering what he expected to happen.

But the engine caught, choking a little before it rumbled to life. "Sonofabitch." He squinted at the fuel gauge. "There's more than half a tank in here."

Carol nodded, trying to work up at least an approximation of enthusiasm. "Good. We can just wait for the others here then." She reached into her pocket and found the gross package of cheese and peanut butter crackers she'd shoved in there before they took off. "Want some?"

"What I want is for you t'tell me what's goin' on with you." For the first time since she'd walked into that forest clearing and watched his eyes flit from exhaustion to elation, there was an edge of irritation in his voice. But of course it was gone with the next words out of his mouth, which were so low and strung together that she wouldn't have been able to decipher them if she didn't know him so well. "I get worried when you're quiet like this. 'Cause last time-"

He stopped, leaving the sentence there, and guilt bloomed sharp and achy in her chest as she caught the full wave of how badly he was misreading her signals. Without even thinking, she took the three steps that put her in front of him, grabbed for his hand so that his pinkie was twisted with hers, and blurted out, "The only thing wrong with me is that I can't think about anything right now except how much I want to have sex."

His eyes widened, astonished blue everywhere. "You-" He scuffed a foot in the dirt and stared at her. "What?"

She dropped his hand and concentrated on a loose thread on his vest so she wouldn't have to look at his eyes. "You heard me."

The flash of smug delight that lit his face was gone almost before it arrived, but she hadn't missed it, and his body went entirely still, which was always how she knew she had his undivided attention. He shot a glance down the path. "They're only twenty or twenty-five minutes behind."

Rubbing her thumb against a belt loop to give her hand something to do, she looked straight at him and said, unable to fight the grin that yanked at the edges of her mouth, "You're cute when you're modest. But we're the only ones here, so you don't need to pretend you've never gotten it done in five minutes, tops."

His cheeks went a shade pinker and, after a beat, he jerked his head toward the car. "Come on then."

She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Y'thought I was gonna turn you down?"

Now she could feel the heat rising into her own face, among other places. "I don't-"

But he was already reaching for the door to the back seat, holding it open as he waited for her to decide. Blushing five shades deeper, she shook her head and crawled in.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

For a minute, it was all nothing but an awkward scramble to get rid of interfering clothing. His fingers grazed her calf while he unzipped her boot and she sucked in a breath, torn between tickled and turned on. She managed to extract herself from her cargoes and underwear, and by the time she'd done so, Daryl had shoved his own pants down to his ankles. His breathing was rapid and shallow, but he didn't touch or reach for her.

He just waited, his face an adorable collision of admiration and lust.

She swung one of her legs over him, his dick brushing the inside of her thigh while she moved, and in half a second the atmosphere went from awkward to . . . anything but. She stared at his lips, licking her own without realizing what she was doing, and he whispered, "Now you're killin' me."

She leaned in to kiss him, and that was all the permission he needed. His mouth opened, tongue tracing the edge of her lower lip, and she made a needy noise as she moved closer in his lap. He was so hard and she was so wet that all she had to do was move a little sideways and he was inside her, her body instinctively pressing down until her thighs were full against his sides.

He caught her by the hips and muttered, "You gotta hold still for jus' a second, or this ain't even gonna qualify as a quickie."

She didn't want to hold still, not even a little, but she nodded and just kissed him, more, her hands on his face and fingers in his hair, loving everything about the full-on sensory assault of his mouth on hers, faint remnant taste of the cinnamon stick he'd been chewing earlier. After a minute, he let her hips go and rocked up into her, gently at first, then a little harder. 

His hands couldn't keep still, first underneath her shirt, fingers light over the skin of her back and down to stroke softly over her ass and pull her towards him. Then they wandered around front, impatiently shoving aside the fabric of her bra and touching his thumbs to her nipples.

Finally, one of his hands slipped down, fingers drawing feather-light patterns on her stomach until his thumb found her clit. He hadn't even finished one slow, torturous circle when she heard herself whispering, "God, just. Do that, please."

"You like that?" His tone was mischievous now, amused and erotic at the same time, and it only made her want _more_.

"Hmmm," was all she could manage as she rocked into him, her body trying to process the waves of pleasure washing over her as his fingers brushed her nipple, his thumb sped up the circle between her already shaking legs, and he moved up inside her, changing the angle so quickly and perfectly that her whole body went up like a match right there.

She wanted to shut her eyes against the overwhelming pleasure of it, but she heard his voice through the haze, vaguely. _Look at me. I wanna watch you._ So she kept them open as the release she'd been wanting since the second she woke up flooded out from the center of her body, up her spine and down her arms until her fingertips tingled with how good it felt. She couldn't really breathe, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he kept moving inside her and the waves kept coming, until his arms went around her back and he put his face into her shoulder, whispering her name like a promise on her skin.

(She loved the sound of his voice saying her name. It was still new, still special, still something that belonged _only_ to her.)

In a few seconds, when he'd stopped outright panting, she figured he'd be reminding her about the ticking clock and how their weapons were in the front seat and all the other logical things they should both be thinking about. But all he did was pull her closer, his palms warm as they massaged her shoulders underneath her shirt, his lips leaving tiny kisses in patterns on the sensitive skin of her neck.

It was actually ridiculous how long she could have sat there in his lap, happy listening to him breathe and letting his hands wander all over her. But she finally pulled back, glancing around to try and reorient herself to reality.

"Shit, we completely fogged up the windows," she said, crawling off of him and tensing a bit, even though she didn't mean to. "We should get out of here and open the doors."

"Why? Everyone knows we're doin' it." Daryl shrugged, leaning over to drag his pants up.

She stopped (still naked from the waist down) and stared at him. "That doesn't bother you?"

He flicked his belt buckle and looked up, his face confused. "Why would it bother me?"

She opened her mouth for half a second, then closed it again, realizing she didn't really have an answer. He reached for her tossed aside clothing, putting it into her hands with a playful smirk. "I'm jus' glad you're here." He touched the place on her side where the ghost of a bruise still remained. "That you're okay."

She swallowed, trying to absorb the fact that he could just . . . say things like this to her now. That he didn't shift or stutter or fidget or look away. She slid sideways, attempting to maneuver her foot into the leg of her pants and Daryl caught her elbow, steadying her. "Careful." 

When she'd finally tugged up the zippers on her boots, she reached for the car door, assuming he'd want to be ready to go the moment the others caught up. But he touched her arm and said softly, "Hey. We got a minute. You're always sayin' how we don't get to . . . cuddle."

She couldn't hold back the peal of laughter that snuck out at his use of that word, the hilarious inflection in the gravel-rough edges of his voice. "Oh, we're gonna cuddle now?"

"Y'make it sound like a challenge or somethin'," he grumbled, opening his arms as he angled himself sideways against the door and spread his legs so she could scoot and lean back into his chest. 

She wiggled around until she was more or less comfortable, drawing his arms around the front of her like a blanket against the cold, because she hadn't put her jacket back on yet and the rapidly-drying sweat was chilling her arms. She shut her eyes, determined for once not to think about a single thing except being exactly where she was, snuggled up against Daryl, still warm and satisfied from the inside out. In fact, if she tried hard enough, she could picture pillows and a fireplace . . .

His kissed her temple, smoothing her hair off her face, and said, "So. That take care of your-" He cleared his throat. "Problem?"

She choked back a giggle. "What do you think?"

He laughed. "Well, y'seem more . . . relaxed."

She took one of his hands in hers and rubbed her thumb softly over the callouses on his palm. "Thank you."

He chuffed, blowing into her hair. "Can't seriously be _thanking_ me for that."

"I can, too!" she exclaimed, shoving a gentle elbow into his ribs. "But I meant more-" She bit the inside of her lip, not sure how to explain. And just like always, he waited, content to be silent and let her figure it out. "For reminding me that it's okay to want something besides forward movement."

"'M'sorry we can't stop more," he murmured, arms tightening around her, a warm wall of love and protection.

"We'll stop. Eventually." She blinked away the moisture that rose instantly to her eyes and rummaged in her pocket until she felt plastic crinkling in her fingers. "You want some of these crackers now?" 

"Probably should. You used up all my energy."

"I didn't hear you complaining." She pulled one of the crackers out and reached back, shoving it into his mouth.

"I'm gonna get it in your hair!" he protested, words muffled through a mouthful of processed cheese and peanut butter.

She took a smaller bite of her own cracker and snuggled closer. "So what? I'm staying right here until someone _makes_ me move."

He shrugged. "'Kay. Lemme rub your shoulder then." 

She closed her eyes and tilted her head so his fingers could work their magic while she listened to the muted drift of the breeze outside.


	4. Overindulge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the lovely anon who sent me the prompt:)

Everything hurts.

Walking. Moving. Breathing.

She can’t take more than a few steps without splinting her right ribs with her left arm, so Daryl and Tara split up her things.

She hates it, all of it — both the helpless feeling of being stripped down to nothing but her knife and her tiny handgun and the knowledge that she’s not even strong enough to carry her own backpack.

But she’s alive, so these are small complaints.

Daryl silently shadows her from a few feet away, hovering even more than usual. And she appreciates the sentiment, she does, but his proximity makes it even more necessary to school her face into neutrality, to force herself not to show pain.

(She’s had a lot of practice, but she can’t remember ever hurting quite this much, even the time Ed threw her down half a flight of stairs and she landed on his toolbox. The next morning he’d woken up all cheerful, and as soon as he’d sucked down enough coffee to get rid of his hangover, he was ready for a family hike. Halfway through the walk, five-year-old Sophia had given up, and Carol had carried her several miles down a twisting dirt path, silent tears dripping down her face and off her chin when she couldn’t ignore the pain any more. Fortunately Sophia was half asleep, and Ed hadn’t looked at her long enough to notice.)

Daryl notices everything, so when it’s almost dusk and the tears start slipping down her cheeks (she fights, so hard, but eventually there’s nothing she can do), he breaks the creepy oppressive silence that’s covered them all day like a fog with a gruff, “We gotta stop.”

She shakes her head, sniffling in attempted defiance. “I’m fine. I can keep going.”

"No. You can’t. We’re stopping." Daryl looks at Rick.

One glance at her face and Rick’s already letting his pack slip off his shoulders. “Yeah. We’ll get back to it at sunup.” He touches her forearm as he walks past, and his gentleness only makes the tears worse.

Daryl watches Rick go and then steps towards her, his voice so quiet even she can barely make out his mumbled words. “‘M sorry. Just can’t watch you when it’s that bad. Everyone’s exhausted anyhow.”

There’s no way she could manage to speak at this point, so she just nods.

He won’t look at her, or at anyone.

She wishes he would.

She wishes a lot of things.

_________________________

There’s no way she’s falling asleep when the pain’s so intense that it makes her head pulse and her stomach threaten to turn inside out. But she can rest (and god, it does feel nice to just  _not move_ ), so she closes her eyes and listens to the rhythmic thud of Daryl’s boots as they wear a path in the dirt maybe twenty feet away from her head.

He refuses to let anyone else take first watch, although he has to be more exhausted than any of them.

Carol tries to steady her breathing, hand still pressed softly against the terrible ache in her side.

When she was a little girl and she had nightmares, her dad used to sit on the edge of her bed, hold both of her hands (they always seemed so small inside his), and say,  _Shut your eyes and_   _imagine five things that make you smile_.

And although she’s never been much given to nostalgia about the way life used to be, something about the combination of grief, pain, and exhaustion makes her mind wander back to the things that used to make her smile — in another lifetime.

_Strawberry cupcakes._

_Her favorite dark brown ankle boots, freshly polished._

_The choir at midnight mass on Christmas Eve._

_Sophia’s warm, sleeping body cuddled up in her arms on the couch, tiny pacifier slipping out of her rosebud mouth._

_That perfect moment when the bubble bath went from one degree too hot to exactly right._

When it first happened, when all hell broke loose, she used to open her eyes in the morning, and for a split second she’d hold onto that quiet hope that all of it had been nothing more than an unnaturally vivid nightmare.

Now, it’s the before that seems like a dream.

Like maybe none of that ever happened, and this is the only thing that’s real.

_________________________

After a couple days, she takes her rifle back.

It feels good in her hands, chilly metal on her skin, the familiar chafe of the strap on her still-bruised shoulder.

She tries to take her backpack from Daryl, but he shakes his head, clutching it until she can see the cracks in his knuckles, open and oozing. “It’s not even that heavy.”

"Then I can probably carry it."

He looks straight at her for the first time since they left Grady, and when she sees everything swimming behind his blue squint, for a second she can’t decide if she’s grateful or sorry.

But then his eyes soften and he says, hardly a cracked whisper, “Carrying this bag is somethin’ I can fuckin’  _do_ , okay? So let me do it.” He sucks in a weird jagged breath. “Please?”

Then it all makes even more sense, so she makes a face that with two hundred percent more effort would be a half smile and says, “Thank you” before he hustles off looking for (she assumes) something else to distract him from the noise in his head.

_________________________

Food tastes like wet sand.

She’d never been all that fond of grilled squirrel, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that, so she’d gotten pretty accustomed to eating some weird shit.

Now, she has to have a canteen with her every time she tries to eat, because if she doesn’t take a tiny sip of water and pause after every bite, there’s no way she’s not going to vomit every single bit right back up.

It doesn’t help that Daryl watches every morsel that goes into her mouth, or that he’s developed this new habit of waiting until she’s three quarters finished with her food before he’ll even start on his.

Everyone still speaks only when necessary, all the usual:

_Hear anything?_

_Who’s starting the fire?_

_Nah it’s just some animal._

_Let it boil for another minute._

Daryl checks on her constantly, almost obsessively, always:

_Y’all right?_

_Need s’more food?_

_Nah, I’ll do it._

_How’s your side?_

_Wish you’d eat somethin’ else._

But beyond that it’s just boots and breeze, the crunch of dead leaves and the occasional snarl of a walker silenced by a quick bolt or jab to the head.

The grief moves with them like a live thing, a traveling companion that bashes into their shoulders, unties their shoelaces, unbalances their packs, and knocks them off stride every three seconds.

At night, trying to fall asleep a few feet away from Daryl’s tense, balled up form, Carol can hear Maggie’s muffled crying.

There’s not a moment she’s alive when she doesn’t miss Sophia’s love-filled smile, Mika’s adorable cheeky sass, and Lizzie’s laser-focused curiosity about the whole world. Still, on nights like this — cold seeping from the ground into her throbbing shoulder even through the sleeping bag, dirt all over her arms and face because they haven’t even found a decent pond in three days, her voice actually creaky and aching from lack of use — she can’t help the creeping gratitude that her girls are someplace else.

Someplace better, probably.

(Hopefully.)

Someplace where your shoelaces always stay tied and nobody has to eat grilled squirrel.

Someplace where they have Oreos.

She misses Oreos.

_________________________

"Do you miss candy?" Tara asks right out of nowhere, when they’re sharing watch about a week later. (Daryl always takes watch with her, but he has a fever so high she forced him to take four of the Ibuprofen they have left, even though there aren’t that many. He was cooler the last time she checked, but the worry still vibrates around her, makes her chew her lip and pick at the hem of her shirt.)

"Candy?"

Tara smiles in the half-light from the fire, and tears sting the edges of Carol’s eyes when she realizes that she hasn’t seen anyone offer up even an attempt at a smile in weeks.

"Yeah. Candy. The delicious stuff filled with sugar that they used to have at Publix."

Carol readjusts her rifle. “I miss Oreos.”

"Oh shit, yes. What’s your favorite kind?"

Carol pauses, chagrined when she realizes there’s no answer to that. “Honestly? I like them all.” She thinks, watching a piece of wood send off a few popping sparks. “But the Christmas ones were really good. Probably I just like red food coloring.”

"Pumpkin spice," Tara declares, like it’s obvious there’s no other option.

"Oh god. I never tried  _those_.”

"What about Sophia? What was her favorite candy?"

Carol’s whole body stills, her fingers wrapping around the rifle so she has something solid to hold. The casual simplicity of the way Tara says Sophia’s name — like it’s not a big deal, like she’s a beautiful memory that should always remain part of the present — fills Carol with so much love that it hurts to talk.

But she swallows and says, “Milk Duds. She loved those damn things.” Clearing her throat to make her voice stronger, Carol adds, “I used to tease her all the time that when she got braces she wouldn’t be able to have them.”

Tara’s smile widens as she leans over to toss another large stick on the fire. “I loved Nerds. Especially the grape ones. You know the tiny packs they give out at Halloween?”

Carol nods, still running her thumb over the metal on her rifle and trying to still the shake in her hands that happens whenever she thinks of her baby for too long. It’s strange though, how this time the memories feel almost … good.

"My friends and I used to save up the boxes and down them like the 13-year-old version of shots." Tara laughs, and the sound loosens something inside Carol, a scary breaking-free she didn’t authorize.

"What about you?" Tara continues. "What’s your favorite?"

Carol lifts her thumb to the edge of her eye to shove away the tear that’s forming there before it can really become a thing. “Milk Duds.” And without meaning to, she laughs too, an unsettling quiet giggle that feels unfamiliar as it moves the muscles in her chest. “Sophia converted me.”

"I love the way you always have to stick your finger in your teeth to get the last of the caramel out," says Tara. "Kinda gross, but they’re  _so good_.”

They fall silent again, back to scanning the trees, listening for anything out of the ordinary, and making sure the fire stays lit. (It’s so cold that nobody can sleep if they let it die.) But for the first time in weeks, it just feels like silence. There’s no awful black nothingness waiting inside of it. 

Only quiet.

After maybe ten minutes, Tara rolls her neck until it cracks and says, “Why don’t you go check on him? I’ve got this.”

Carol nods and heads towards Daryl’s sleeping bag.

_________________________

"You want the rest of mine?" Daryl extends his half full bowl of raccoon and white bean "stew" (Sasha dubbed it stew after they managed to find a few onions to mix in with the meat and the canned beans), looking hopeful that maybe she’ll actually accept it this time.

"Will you  _stop_? I can hear your stomach growling!” she exclaims, rolling her eyes at him. “Besides, I’m pretty full. That was a fat raccoon.”

He scoots a touch closer to her on the sleeping bag they’re sharing as seat and says quietly, “Hope you’re not too full. Brought you back a surprise from the run.”

"What’re you-"

"Shhh," he says, and her heart actually hurts when she sees the edges of his mouth quirk up and stay that way for a few long, gorgeous seconds. "Be quiet unless you wanna share."

"Fine," she whispers. "But what’d you bring?"

"You’ll see on watch tonight," he says with a smirk, and he squeezes her shoulder, quick and warm, as he pushes himself up and heads over to help Glenn fix a broken trap.

She stares at the dusty worn toes of her boots, holding onto the feeling of his fingers on her skin.

It takes longer every time; it has to.

But they’re coming back to themselves.

Her eyes fill with tears, and even she isn’t sure whether the moisture she shoves away from her cheeks contains more happiness or sadness.

Maybe it’s not important to know.

Maybe all that matters is that she still feels enough to cry.

_________________________

"God, I think I’m gonna throw up."

"Really? Fuck."

Daryl’s moving toward her before she can even unstick her teeth enough to say anything else, so she holds out her hand and shakes her head vehemently. “No, no. I’m kidding!”

"Shouldn’t joke about that," he mutters. "Not when I know you’d sneak Carl all your food if I wasn’t right there starin’ at you."

"I know. I’m sorry," she replies, sucking chocolate off the pads of her fingers. "Although I can’t believe I just ate two boxes of Milk Duds and I  _don’t_  feel sick.”

He grins, knocking the last few in his own package into his mouth. “Never had ‘em before tonight.”

This doesn’t surprise her, but it makes her ache inside, for all the Halloween nights he never got to jump onto the couch and divide his haul into very specific categories — chocolates, lollipops, sour stuff, stuff to give away, etc. — all the while sneaking pieces into his mouth. So she doesn’t say, “Seriously?” but she does say, “They’re good, right?”

He looks straight at her. “Not as good as watching you eat ‘em.”

She forces her eyes to hold his gaze, long and warm and blue, because they both know this is happening.

Not tonight.

Probably not next week.

But it’s happening.

He doesn’t even look away, and after a few more seconds (during which she’s thankful they’re far enough from the fire that he hopefully can’t see the pink flush heating her cheeks) she says, “I don’t even know how you heard us. I thought you were asleep. Or delirious. Or both.”

Daryl shrugs, finally breaking eye contact. “Wish I could bring you more stuff you like.”

She can’t help the flash of her own wish, which is that they could instantly fast-forward to the place where it would be okay for her to say the first thing that comes to her mind, which in the moment is something like,  _There’s actually nothing I like more on earth than you standing here smiling at me, so I think you’re good_.

She can’t say that though.

Not yet.

So she goes with, “The candy was delicious,” and tilts her head toward where the others are sleeping. “Come on. Time for us to switch with Rick and Michonne.”

When she walks past him, she impulsively reaches for his hand, intending only to give a quick squeeze, assuming he’ll tense up or draw back.

But he doesn’t pull away at all, fingers closing warm over hers as they walk back towards camp.

"I looked for Oreos," he says like an afterthought, like maybe he forgot to tell her before. "But they didn’t have any."

She holds his hand tighter and shoots him a sideways grin. “Maybe next time.”


End file.
